


Go Fish

by wackatoshi



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Card Games, Cute Kids, Diners, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Futakuchi's a little shit, Go Fish, Kuzco's poison, Late Night Conversations, Love Confessions, Makki gets blackmailed by kids, One Shot, Pining, Post-Time Skip, Pull the lever Kronk!, The poison chosen especially to kill Kuzco, The poison for Kuzco, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:01:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28568913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wackatoshi/pseuds/wackatoshi
Summary: Is there anything more ironic than attending a wedding with the girl you’ve been pining for all your life? Hanamaki thinks this is the height of embarrassment, but he’d do anything for you.
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 42





	Go Fish

**Author's Note:**

> hi, winter here :) post time-skip spoilers for where makki winds up! proceed w caution :D

“Any sevens?”

“Go fish.”

Hanamaki sighs, reaching out to draw from the deck under the gleeful gaze of his eight-year-old opponent. He’s about to manifest a seven when a hand sweeps in from behind, plucking the card clean out of his grasp.

With a start, he turns around in surprise. There’s a playful smile dancing on your lips when you look back at him, the kind that instantly throws his brain into an everlasting loop.

You twirl the card between your fingers. “Making friends?”

“Oh, him?” Makki asks, glancing at the child. “We go way back.”

You laugh.

It’s still a mystery as to why you’d called up two weeks ago, asking him to be your plus-one to this wedding. You could’ve brought anybody — arm candy Iwaizumi, dark and mysterious Matsukawa. So why did you pick _him_?

But he didn’t ask. All he’d said was _yes, of course_ , because it was you, and that has always been reason enough for Makki.

Unfortunately, his knee-jerk reaction at seeing you all dressed-up today was to blurt out, “ _Hey, you kind of look like Yzma from The Emperor’s New Groove,”_ but he hadn’t meant it in a _bad_ way — more like a purple way. If it had been anyone else, a recovery would’ve been near impossible, but you’d only laughed, hooked your arm around his and asked if he’d brought the poison. _What poison? The poison for Kuzco. The poison chosen specifically to kill Kuzco. Kuzco’s poison._

Still, he could’ve kicked himself for not taking the opportunity to say something more charming, like:

_Hey, you look beautiful. You always do._

But that moment’s long since passed. All Makki can do now is sit and wait in hopes that time will be kind enough to offer him a second chance. Even so, he’s not sure if he’ll have the courage to take it.

You lean forward, observing the game in progress. “Where did you get the cards?”

“I brought them with me.”

“You _brought_ them? How long did you think this would be?”

He throws you a look. After all, the bride is running fifteen minutes late, and even the uninvited uncle (who, apparently, nobody knew was still alive) is growing restless.

The little boy, condemned to the second seat beside Hanamaki, had been the first victim of the bride’s tardiness. He’d spotted the warning signs early on — kicking legs and impatient whispers, all ominous foreshocks of a brewing storm.

“Where’s Mum?”

“I told you,” his father reminded him, patience wearing thin. “Helping your little sister. She’s the flower girl, remember?”

This, of course, he refused to understand, his agitation only rising and unfurling into manic fury.

“I want _Mum_.”

“I _know_ , son, but she can’t be here right now—”

Another frustrated whine.

And nobody really wants an earthquake on their big day. So, feeling benevolent, Hanamaki had slipped out the deck of cards from his pocket and struck up a spontaneous game of Go Fish, figuring it’d do them both some good to kill the passing time.

Distraction, after all, is the only way to cope with hopeless waiting. Makki would know.

You slip the card back into his hand. _A six, damn it._ As he goes to draw another, his young opponent regards you with a curious look.

“Is she your girlfriend?” he asks.

With a sigh, Takahiro sifts through his mind for whichever wisecrack he’ll use _this_ time. It’s a question he’s been asked a million times before, with an answer that remains forever unchanged. Still, he cracks a wry grin, plastering humour over the sting in his chest.

“One of them.”

You smack his arm and cast the boy a weary look.

“Don’t listen to anything he tells you.”

Makki leans over to fist-bump his newfound friend. “Bros before hoes, remember?”

“Hiro, he’s a _kid_.”

The boy fist-bumps back. “What’s a hoe?”

“Never mind.”

Not long after, Hanamaki loses the round. He promises a rematch, then watches the boy return to his father’s side in high spirits, proudly showing off his winnings — a Tootsie Roll that Makki had snagged from the refreshments table earlier.

 _That’s enough charity work for a day_ , he thinks, wrapping an elastic band around the deck. Suddenly, you lean in towards him, shoulders bumping, and the contact nearly sends all fifty-two cards flying out of his hands.

“What?” he asks, struggling to sound nonchalant.

“Purple Hair’s got a thing for the best man,” you murmur, raising the hairs on his skin. “Bet.”

He swallows, refocussing. A woman with a violet pixie cut chirps away to the family sitting in the pew behind. On the platform, the florid best man pats down his shiny forehead with a handkerchief. In his two-second rundown, he doesn’t quite catch your drift.

“Doubt it,” Makki whispers back. “Hyperhidrosis, at best. Not lust.”

“I’m calling it,” you insist, undeterred. “Love is in the air, my dear Watson.”

You’re staring hard now, as though the sheer force of your gaze might align the stars for them. Funny, how you can spend so much of your time intuiting about other people, without discerning the one secret that’s been there all along.

Maybe this is hopeless, but Makki’s been telling himself that since the beginning, and somehow, he’s _still_ here. It doesn’t help that you’ve only grown every bit sweeter to him over the years, honeying up his heavy heart with your saccharine smiles and winsome wit. He looks at you, feeling the delicate confession dance on the tip of his tongue, one courageous breath away from materialisation.

Before he can even open his mouth, a hush falls over the nave like a veil, a series of twinkling piano notes marking the bride’s long-anticipated arrival. As the music sings through the hall, the wedding guests turn and crane their necks with rapt attention.

And as you watch the pretty bridesmaids float down the aisle, eyes soft with admiration, Makki finds himself unable to watch anything else but you.

+

Whose grand idea was it to introduce _speeches_ as a wedding tradition? One of the tipsy bridesmaids had already clocked up a twelve-minute tangent about love and trees. With nothing better to do, Makki had started snuffing out one of the tea candles on the table with his fingers, amused by the hapless staff member who would come back over and over again to relight it.

“Stop it,” you murmur, only after the fourth time.

He glances at you, guilty as charged, but your eyes are glittering with humour.

“I can’t help it,” he whispers, waiting for the persistent employee walk a good distance away, before swiping out to extinguish the flame again. “I just need to feel something.”

Within seconds, they return to relight the candle, disappearing just as fast as they appeared.

“Wow,” he observes. “That was record time.”

Across the table, the flower girl, shrouded in pink tulle, bursts into a fit of giggles. Even though her mother breaks from the dreary speech to silence her, albeit halfheartedly, she grins at Makki, wide and toothless.

“Don’t,” you beg him, with no real resolve.

It’s too late, anyway. He raises a finger to his lips, then puts out the candle. Again.

The employee hurries back, winded and muttering something under his breath, before confiscating the candle altogether. On the other end of the table, the little girl and her brother, now summoned to attention, cover their mouths, trembling with muffled laughter.

You elbow Makki in the ribs, looking so utterly amused that it inflates his ego like a hot air balloon. God, he’d go and snuff every candle in the venue if it meant seeing that look on your face each time.

But alas, here he is, playing another round of Go Fish with his newly-acquired fledglings. The speeches had ended, but the fun was just beginning to unravel, the familiar beat of music sweeping people left, right and centre off to the dazzling dance floor. At some point, Takahiro finds himself responsible for the welfare of these now unattended children.

You’ve also been whisked away by some expensive-looking gentleman with a charming smile and beguiling charisma. Makki tells himself that this is a safe distance to keep — _out of sight, out of mind_ — but still, he finds his gaze and thoughts wandering over to you every now and then.

Suddenly, the little flower girl starts to giggle. Makki blinks out his reverie, attention snapping back to the game.

“What’s so funny?” he tuts, studying his hand. “I’m gonna wipe the floor this round, just saying.”

“You _like_ her.”

Makki stiffens, mind racing to analyse the situation. The teasing lilt of this little girl’s voice is a clear sign that these are dangerous and unpredictable waters. Anything he says may be used against him at a later time — he _has_ to remember this. After all, kids are ruthless when they know too much.

“Who?” he deflects, in a poor attempt at indifference. “You got any fives?”

The flower girl tosses her cards aside, pointing to the dance floor. _Shoot._ Beneath the lights, you’re a sight for sore eyes — head thrown back in laughter, satin dress bunched in your hands.

He could watch you forever, he thinks, even if he’s not the one you’re dancing with.

She throws him a sly grin, baring the toothless gap in the middle of her top teeth. “You know who.”

Makki tosses his hand aside, letting all his cards fan out over the table in clear view.

“She’s my friend.”

“ _Girl-_ friend,” she teases, in a sing-song voice.

“Ew.”

“You missed two turns,” her brother chimes in, sparkling with mischief, “‘coz you were too busy starin’ at her.”

Takahiro watches with disdain as the pair of them dissolve into a fit of childish giggles.

“Very funny,” he deadpans, and starts to gather the cards into his arms, slipping a stray four up his sleeve. Maybe he just needs a diversion. “Hey, wanna see a magic trick?”

“So are you gonna tell her?”

 _Ugh_.

Sometimes, life calls upon you to teach unfair truths to small and impressionable children, and there’s simply nothing you can do about it. He clasps his hands together, leaning forward as though to share a profound revelation.

“Well, it’s not always that simple,” he starts, solemnly. “You’ll understand more as you get older, but—”

“I can tell her,” the little girl suggests.

 _Like hell_ —

“ _No_ ,” he protests, throwing out his hand to banish the devil child from sliding off her seat. “Don’t even _think_ about it.”

“Why? Whatcha gonna do?”

“For a start, I’ll tell your parents that I saw you take a sweet sip of their champagne,” he threatens. “ _And_ that you didn’t eat any of your vegetables tonight.”

Because she’d given them all to _him_ , of course. It’s a low blow, but hey, you gotta hate the game, not the player.

She mulls over this threat, mood darkened, then points to her brother. “ _You_ do it, then.”

He hesitates, eyes flicking back to Makki.

“No,” he says, slowly. “We’re bros.”

What a godsend. His sister gapes in horror, while Hanamaki beams with utter delight. “That’s _right—”_

“And bros come before—”

“ _No_ , no, that’s enough.”

With a huff, the disgruntled flower girl picks at layers of thick, pink tulle, fanning in all directions around her.

“ _You_ should tell her,” she insists.

Makki scoffs. “No way.”

“Why not?”

He rubs his temples. “If I give you a Tootsie Roll, will you promise to shut up?”

“No.” But then she pauses, resolve flickering. “ _Two_ Tootie Rolls.”

Kids would be ruthless machines of honesty, if only they weren’t so easily manipulated. He rummages through his pockets, praying for spare change, and releases a quiet sigh of relief as the candy rolls into his palm.

“Here,” he says, dropping the bribe before her. “Now shut it.”

She unwraps one, pops it in her mouth, and slides herself off the chair, evidently having had enough of the company. Then, taking a small step towards Makki, pushes herself onto the tips of her toes, cupping a hand beside his ear, and whispers,

“I think she likes you, too.“

+

The bride and groom leave at midnight, but the after-party drags on for another relentless two hours. Drunk dancers beg for _just one more song_ , chatty guests divulge petty gossip, bordering on scandal. Makki swears he saw the best man tango with the violet-haired woman just minutes ago, only now he can’t seem to find either of them.

A jaded and thrice-divorced lawyer passionately preaches a sermon on why marriage is nothing but a social and financial scam. The drunken bridesmaid from the earlier speech sobs through her retaliation that _love is pure and good and beautiful and—_

Makki almost leaps out of his seat when you come to collect him.

“Ready to go?” you ask.

He could kiss you, really.

The two of you slip away from the dying buzz of the party, treading through the grass, all the way back to the lonely parking lot. You’re laughing as he fills you in on all piping hot tea he’s acquired, puffs of white floating through the night like clouds. He doesn’t say anything when he slips his jacket over your shivering shoulders, and he doesn’t meet your eye when you glance back at him.

Thirty minutes later, you find yourselves standing before some downtown diner, contemplating your options. From the outside, it looks like an awfully decrepit thing, all peeling paint and flickering neon lights. In fact, it nearly persuades you _out_ of having your milkshake fix, but when Makki threatens to start eating the pavement then and there, you cave.

Thankfully, looks can be deceiving. The inside of the diner offers a pleasant change of scenery. It’s warm and cosy, infused with the aroma of comfort food and the gentle hum of old songs.

Makki’s busy cleaning his plate when you lean over the table, hands clasped around your empty milkshake glass.

“Let’s play a game.”

He raises a brow, amused. “What?”

“Go Fish.”

“Are we kids?” he retorts, but pulls out the deck anyway.

You chew the inside of your cheek, biting down a grin as he makes a rather ostentatious show of shuffling, deft fingers swift and smooth in their movements, sharpened with expertise. He lets you cut the deck, winking when you catch his eye, and deals out the cards. The game begins.

You’re laying down a pair of threes when you say, “A little birdie tells me you have a secret.”

“My hair is full of them,” he jokes. “Got a two?”

You slide out the card from your hand. He reaches to take it, but you hold onto its other end. “Apparently, you have a crush.”

 _Snitch,_ he thinks, _that double-crossing little—_

Makki clears his throat, straight-faced. “Really?”

“Really.”

You hold his gaze, steady and level. All he can hear is the incessant racing of his heart, beating against his chest like a prisoner begging for release. He wonders if he’ll ever be brave enough to tell you the truth, or if this secret is something that he will just have to keep burying, over and over again, because it refuses to die.

You let go of the card. Hanamaki places the pair of twos on the table, fingers flexing in an effort to shake off the tremor overtaking them.Neither of you presses the matter any further, playing each subsequent turn with only a handful of words exchanged.

But the walls are crumbling around Makki, wreaking havoc over his aching conscience. When he lays down a pair of aces next, his chest constricts, ribs bursting with a heart that has grown too large to contain this truth any longer.

He breathes out. “I don’t think you want to know.”

“Hey,” you say, gently. “Don’t be so sure.”

So, holding that assurance as a lifeline, Makki braces himself and lets his world go up in smoke.

“I know we’re just friends,” he starts, and feels his face burn like a wildfire, devouring this worn-down mask of indifference he’s spent years hiding behind, _feels_ his words spill out like the surge of floodwaters, rushing on and on, “but I need to tell you that I’ve _liked_ you for as long as I’ve known you, and it’s fine if you don’t, _it_ _is_ , but it’s eating me up that I haven’t said anything, because I feel like I’m just _lying_ and—”

He sucks in a sharp breath. “Look, you’re not under any obligation. We can just sweep this under the rug, okay? I won’t let it, y’know, get in the way or anything. So—”

“Hey guys,” comes an ill-timed interruption, in the form of a smug-looking brunette. He wears a crooked grin, glancing between the two of you. “Are we all done here?”

Makki sends him an irritated glare, but the waiter seems unfazed.

“Yeah,” you manage, sounding choked. You fuss with the empty dishes, stacking them in a pile. “Thanks.”

“How was everything?”

“Fine,” Makki drawls.

“Oh, good,” he replies, brightly. “That’s great. _Fantastic_ — _”_

Out of nowhere, a resounding smack startles the three of you. The waiter spins around, eyes widened in surprise, revealing an exasperated workmate standing behind him. She narrows her eyes, flimsy menu braced in hand — a weapon at the ready.

“Kenji, I swear to _God_ —”

“Alright, alright,” he backs down, hurriedly gathering the dishes into his arms. “I’m going now, _see—”_

The waitress throws you both an apologetic look, before turning on her heels to head back into the kitchen, flustered workmate in tow. 

The silence that hangs over the table is unbearable, a weighty burden ridden with nauseating anticipation. But he doesn’t wait for you to say anything, rising to his feet and mustering a look of shaky indifference.

“We should probably head back,” he says, briefly.

You stare at your palms. “Okay.”

+

“It’s really not much,” he’s insisting, fishing out his wallet and nearly shouldering you out of the way.

But the guy’s been bouncing between jobs like a ping-pong ball, _and_ he’d offered to drive today.

“I know,” you sigh, sliding out your card. “But I want to.”

“Oh,” the smarmy waiter interjects, frowning at the machine. “Looks like it’s down. Do you have cash, by any chance?”

_Just your luck._

You rummage for spare change from the depths of your clutch, Makki from his seemingly bottomless pockets, managing to scrape together just the right amount for your little pit stop. The waiter sends you off with a cheerful goodbye, a little _too_ cheerful if you let yourself think about it, but truth be told, there’s a lot more on your mind right now.

The parking lot is desolate, save for the few odd cars strewn about like forgotten playthings. As you walk, each step crunching over the gravel road, a sheet of icy silence presses itself into the fragile space between you. It’s an unwelcome change, especially with someone as familiar to you as him.

“Makki—”

“So Mattsun’s got a new car,” he jumps in, hands tucked deep in his pockets. “Finally. His old one was basically falling apart, you know?”

“Is that right?” you comment, but your voice is far away, eyes desperately searching his. He refuses to look at you. “Listen, about—”

“You should see it,” he carries on, forcefully. “I give it a week, at best. Dodgiest deal I’ve ever seen, if I’m being honest—”

“Makki _—”_

He bursts.

“It’s _fine_ ,” he exclaims, stopping in his tracks to face you, and of course, he looks anything _but_ fine. “At least, it will be. Someday. Like I said, you don’t have to say anything, because,” he swallows, a flash of pain flitting across his eyes, “because if you don’t feel the same, I don’t think I can handle hearing it from you right now, so _please_ —”

“ _Makki_ ,” you reiterate, and how that name that will never get old on your lips, how the sound of it will always be enough to make you smile. “Shut up.”

He opens his mouth to object, but evidently thinks the better of it, quickly clamping it down.

You step closer. He stiffens. “Did you really mean it? All of it?”

The crimson on his face softens into a dusty pink, like blush peonies blooming over his cheeks. He lets out a defeated sigh, running a hand through his hair.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I did. So—”

 _So screw the rest_ , you think, wrapping your hands around his face and pulling him towards you, only to sorely underestimate his height and nosedive into his lips. He blinks in surprise, but _laughs —_ the quiet, breathless kind that sends all of your butterflies into a fluttering frenzy — before tilting his head, leaning down to meet you.

This is uncharted territory in your friendship, but somehow, it comes easily to you, much like everything else does with Makki. Whether it's talking, laughing, crying, or now, _kissing_ , it always feels safe with him. His arms on your waist, your hands in his hair, lips locked and hearts in time — you can’t help but think about what a perfect, _perfect_ combination this is.

When you pull away, the dazed look on his face is _everything_.

“Bet you wish you had shut up earlier now, huh?” you tease.

“Yeah,” he agrees, all too quickly, an endearing redness settling over his ears and the tip of his nose. “For sure.”

“Hiro.”

“Mm?”

You could say a handful of things. _You’re sweating._ (He is.) _You’re blushing._ (So are you.) But there’s really only one thing you want to say right now.

“Do I actually look like Yzma?” you blurt out. “Not that I was thinking about it or anything. But I noticed all the kids staring at me and I couldn’t help—“

“No,” he interrupts, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You look beautiful.”

He pauses, his gaze tender and warm.

“But not _as_ beautiful—”

“Shut up,” you snort, shaking your head in mirth. “You suck.”

Hanamaki laughs, arms tightening around your waist. “I know. But I’m also your super sucky boyfriend now, so you’ve just gotta live with it.”

“One of them.”

“Funny,” he drawls, but presses his lips to your forehead.

You lay your hands over his chest, revelling in the quiet hum of his heart beating beneath your palms. As you tilt your head up to face him, you find him already looking down at you, brimming with affection.

“What are you thinking about now?”

“Kissing you again,” he admits, sheepishly. “Do you have any objections?”

Your lips twist into a wry smile.

“Go fish.”


End file.
